A Secret Love (10 page)

Lady Hertford sat poker straight, disapproval for her errant spouse in every line. “I'm convinced,” she hissed, “that it's only because my dearest cousin Ernest suggested it, and Geoffrey's never liked Ernest.”

Her friend murmured sympathetically, then turned the conversation to their offspring. Alathea moved away. Clearly, Lord Hertford shared her reaction to the Central East Africa Gold Company—in his case, if her ladyship was to be believed, because of who was “in charge.”

From across the room, a turbaned dowager beckoned; Alathea obeyed the summons. With a serene smile firmly in place, she withstood an intensive inquisition on her obsession for the country and her spinster state. Not, of course, that the words “unfashionable recluse” or “husband” ever featured in the conversation.

Invincible serenity and an adamant refusal to be drawn finally won her her release from Lady Merricks, who snorted and waved her away. “Unconscionable—that's what it is, miss! Your grandmama would have been the first to say so.”

With that observation ringing in her ears, Alathea gravitated back to the side of the room, and wondered if she dared broach the subject of the Central East Africa Gold Company with her hostess. One glance at Lady Hertford's round and ruddy countenance put paid to that idea. Her ladyship was unlikely to have any information beyond what she'd already divulged. More to the point, she would be amazed by Alathea's inquiry. Ladies of her ilk, young or otherwise, should have no interest in such matters—ladies of her ilk were not supposed to know such matters existed.

Which was a definite hurdle, for she could not, on the same count, beard his lordship, either.

Alathea glanced at the door. Did she dare slip out and search Lord Hertford's study? She debated the likelihood of finding anything helpful; if learning the name of the man behind the company had been enough to cool his lordship's interest, it seemed unlikely he would have needed to write it down.

The probable return did not seem worth the risk of getting caught searching Lord Hertford's study. She could just imagine the scandal
that
would provoke, especially if her reasons for searching ever came out.

And what if Gabriel learned of it?

No. She'd have to be patient. The very word chafed—she trenchantly repeated it. In the matter of the Central East Africa Gold Company, she was the countess and the countess had put her trust in Gabriel.

Patience and trust were all very well, but such virtues did nothing to ease her curiosity or allay the conviction that, if she left him too much to his own devices, Gabriel would either solve the entire matter and then present himself before her expecting to claim some impossible reward, or he'd become mired in some distracting detail and lose the thread entirely. Either was possible. If
he
had always been the leader,
she
had always been his
eminence grise
. It was time to reclaim that position.

They were attending an evening party at Osbaldestone House. Standing by the
chaise
on which Serena sat conversing with Lady Chadwick, Alathea scanned the crowd gathered to celebrate Lady Osbaldestone's sixtieth birthday. For her purpose, the setting was perfect.

Two days had passed since their unplanned meeting at Lincoln's Inn, two days in which Gabriel should have investigated the company's agent and his place of business. It was time for the countess to ask for a report.

Before her, the flower of the ton mingled and met. There was no dancing, just a string quartet installed in an alcove, vainly striving to be heard over the din. Talk—gossip and repartee—were the primary occupations of the evening, activities at which the guest of honor excelled.

Lady Osbaldestone was sitting on a
chaise
facing the room's center. Alathea glanced her way. The old lady thumped her cane on the floor, then pointed it at Vane Cynster, currently standing before her. Vane stepped back as if taking refuge behind the willowy figure of his wife. Alathea had met Patience Cynster in the park a few days before. Patience curtsied with unruffleable calm before her ladyship.

Alathea wished
she
had a little more patience—her eyes strayed to the clock for the third time in ten minutes. It was not yet ten o'clock; the party had barely begun. Guests were still arriving. Gabriel was already here, but it was too early for the countess to materialize.

The Cynsters were here
en masse
, Lady Osbaldestone being a connection. Alathea was watching two beauties presently holding court under Gabriel's oddly unimpressed eye when long fingers wrapped about her elbow.

“Welcome to town, my dear.”

The fingers slid down to tangle with hers and briefly squeeze. Alathea turned, a smile lighting her face. “I wondered where you were.” She ran an appreciative glance over the tall, dark-haired, dark-garbed figure beside her. “Now what am I supposed to call you—Alasdair? Or Lucifer?”

His smile flashed, the pirate beneath the fashionable facade showing briefly. “Either will do.”

Alathea raised a brow. “Both accurate?”

“I do my poor best.”

“I'm sure you do.” She looked across the room. “But what's he doing?”

Lucifer followed her gaze to his brother. “Guard duty. We take turns.”

Alathea studied the girls and caught the resemblance. “They're your cousins?”

“Hmm. They don't have an older brother to watch over them, so we do. Devil's in charge, of course, but he's not often in town these days. Very busy taking care of the ducal acres, the ducal purse, and the ducal succession.”

Alathea's gaze shifted to the tall, striking figure of the Duke of St. Ives. “I see.” Devil was paying amazingly close attention to a haughtily commanding lady standing by his side. “The lady with him . . . ?”

“Honoria, his duchess.”

“Ah!” Alathea nodded; Devil's intent gaze was now explained. She'd met all Gabriel's and Lucifer's male cousins occasionally over the years; she had no difficulty picking them out from the crowd. The family resemblance was definite, their general handsomeness a byword, although they were all identifiably distinct, from Devil's striking, piratical looks, to Vane's cool grace, to Gabriel's classical features and Lucifer's dark beauty. “I can't see the other two.” She scanned the crowd again.

“They're not here. Richard and his witch are resident in Scotland.”

“His witch?”

“Well, his wife, but she truly is a witch of sorts. She's known as the Lady of the Vale in those parts.”

“Indeed?”

“Mmm. And Demon's busy escorting his new wife on a prolonged tour of the racetracks.”

“Racetracks?”

“They have a shared interest in racing Thoroughbreds.”

“Oh.” Alathea checked her mental list. “That leaves only you two still unwed.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes at her.
“Et tu, Brute?”

Alathea smiled. “Merely an observation.”

“Just as well, or I might be tempted to point out that those who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.”

Alathea's smile didn't waver. “You know I've decided marriage isn't for me.”

“I know you've told me so—what I've never understood is why.”

Shaking her head, she looked away. “Never mind.” Her gaze returned to the two blond beauties chatting gaily, studiously ignoring Gabriel's lounging, deliberately intimidating presence mere yards away. “Your young cousins—are they twins?”

“Yes. This is their second Season, but they are only eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Alathea glanced at Lucifer, then back at the girls, confirming the modish gowns a touch more elegant than permissable for a girl in her first Season, the more sophisticated hairstyles, the assurance in the girls' gestures. Considering Gabriel watching over them like a potentially lethal avenging angel, Alathea shook her head. “What on earth does he—you—think you're doing? If they're eighteen . . . why”—she swung to look at Mary and Alice talking in a group nearby—“Alice is only seventeen.”

“She is?” Lucifer turned to stare at Mary and Alice. “Good Lord—I didn't notice they were here.” He frowned, then glanced across the room at his cousins. “If you'll excuse me?”

Without waiting for an answer, he swooped on Mary and Alice. With effortless charm, he detached them from their circle. One on each arm, he bore them across the room. Alathea watched, the question of what he was doing fading from her mind as the answer presented itself. He introduced her sisters to his cousins—a moment later, he slipped away from the enlarged circle now containing all four young ladies surrounded by a bevy of exceedingly safe, exceedingly careful young gentlemen.

The pleased-with-himself look on Lucifer's face as he slid into the crowd had Alathea shaking her head, not in wonder so much as resignation. She'd been the recipient of the protectiveness of Cynster males often enough to recognize the impulse. Knowing she was supposed to approve, although she wasn't at all sure she did, she smiled in reply to Lucifer's questioning glance.

Lucifer headed for Gabriel. Smoothly, Alathea joined the circle about Serena's
chaise
. From the corner of her eye, she watched Lucifer explain his new arrangement; Gabriel nodded and passed the watch to Lucifer. Lucifer pulled a face but acquiesced, taking Gabriel's place by the wall.

Alathea darted a glance at the clock. Perfect. Lucifer's maneuvers were going to prove unexpectedly helpful; for the next hour she felt sure she could rely on him and his fair cousins to keep Mary and Alice happily occupied. And any minute now . . .

Majestic, yet blending into the glittering scene, Lady Osbaldestone's butler cleaved through the crowd. He stopped before Gabriel and presented a silver salver. Gabriel lifted a note from the salver, dismissing the butler with a nod. Opening the folded sheet, he scanned it, then refolded it and slipped it into his pocket.

The entire proceedings had taken no more than a minute—unless one had been watching Gabriel specifically, in the crush, nothing would have been seen. Not a flicker of expression betrayed his thoughts—on anything.

Trusting he'd respond to the instructions in the note, Alathea looked away, giving her attention to Serena and her neighbors until it was time for her next move.

She reached the gazebo five minutes early, already slightly breathless. She told herself it was because she'd hurried, because she'd kept trying to watch in every direction at once to make sure no one saw her slip away. The vise locked about her lungs owed nothing to the fact that she was soon to meet Gabriel—not Rupert, but his far more dangerous alter ego—once more in the dark of night.

Folwell had been waiting as instructed in the thick bushes lining the carriage drive. He'd brought her cloak, veil and high-heeled shoes, and her special perfume. Drawing in a deep breath—steeling herself—Alathea let the exotic scent wreathe through her brain. She
was
the countess.

In her disguise, she actually felt like someone else—not Lady Alathea Morwellan, spinster, ape-leader. It was as if her anonimity and the seductive perfume brought out another side of her—she had little difficulty sliding into her role.

The gazebo stood tucked away at the end of the shrubbery—she'd remembered it from years ago. It was far enough from the house to be safe from the risk of others chancing by, and so overhung by trees and rampant shrubs that she need not fear any stray beam of light, a pertinent consideration as she'd been unable to change her gown.

Outside, gravel crunched. A sudden thrill shot through her; tingles of excitement raced over her skin. Facing the archway, she drew herself up, head erect, hands clasped before her. Anticipation slid, insidiously compelling, through her veins. Ruthlessly quelling a reactive shiver, she drew in a tight breath. Tonight, she was determined to hold her own.

He appeared, a black silhouette filling the doorway, her sworn knight come to report. He was a dark presence, intensely masculine, achingly familiar yet so unnervingly unknown. Pausing on the threshold, he located her in the dark; he hesitated—she felt his gaze rake her, felt an inexplicable urge to turn and flee. Instead, she stood still, silent and challenging.

He strolled forward.

“Good evening, my dear.”

She was a creature of night and shadow, discernible only as a darker shape in the dense gloom within the gazebo. Her height, her veil and cloak—Gabriel could see nothing beyond that, but his senses had abruptly focused; he was sure it was she. Halting directly before her, he studied her, very conscious of the alluring perfume that rose from her flesh. “You didn't sign your note.”

Despite not being able to see it, he knew she raised a haughty brow. “How many ladies send you messages to meet them in dark gazebos?”

“More than you'd care to count.”

She stilled. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“No.” He paused, then added, “I was expecting you.” Not here at Osbaldestone House, under his very nose, but he hadn't imagined she'd calmly sit in her drawing room and wait for a week before contacting him again. “I expect you'd like to know what I've learned?”

He heard the purr in his voice, and sensed her wariness.

“Indeed.” She lifted her chin; he could feel the challenge in her gaze.

“Swales doesn't live at that address on the Fulham Road—it's a public house called the Onslow Arms. Henry Feaggins is the proprietor. He holds the mail for Swales.”

“Does Feaggins know where Swales lives?”

“No—Swales simply stops by every few days. There was no mail to be collected, so I sent a letter—a blank sheet. Swales came in this morning and picked it up. My man followed him—Swales went to a mansion in Egerton Gardens. It seems he lives there.”

“Who owns the mansion?”

“Lord Archibald Douglas.”

“Lord Douglas?”